


left me sad and high

by saysthemagpie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxious Niall, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Closeted Character, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Sad Niall, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 14:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15003215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saysthemagpie/pseuds/saysthemagpie
Summary: scenes from the anxious niall 'verse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> these scenes are from the anxious niall verse, a niall-centric character study, kinda? canon fic, written pre-hiatus (summer 2015ish). the arc begins just before x factor and extends through zayn leaving. big time jumps, sorry!

The first time Niall kisses a boy, he’s ten and they’re playing World War II soldiers in the abandoned barn near his mum’s house. As the youngest members of the gang, he and his best friend Conor are allowed to play only if they’ll be the Nazis, which means they have to speak in funny German accents and, eventually, die horrifically when the Allied forces storm the barn. 

Niall hates shooting games but today he’s in unusually good spirits, because his mother has promised that he can take singing lessons at the church next summer if he pays for it out of his allowance. So even though he’s got about five minutes before he gets fake-machine-gunned down, he’s flushed and happy and he wants to live, if only for a little while longer. 

The kiss itself isn’t premeditated. He and Conor are holed up behind a broken-down cart the last occupants have left there, squeezed in together so that the snipers won’t spot the bright red flash of Niall’s jumper. They’re giggling and shushing each other and Niall feels this weird bubble of nerves and near-hysterical joy welling up unexpectedly in his chest, and then without thinking about it he’s doing it, he’s kissing Conor, only Conor turns his head away at the last minute and Niall just catches the side of his mouth. 

To his credit, Conor doesn't freak out. At the time Niall’s so grateful he could cry. Later though he wonders if maybe that would have been better, if Conor had made a scene and stormed off and never spoken to Niall again, because at least then he'd know that something had happened. But Conor just draws back a little and puts his hand up to his mouth, wiping off the place where Niall’s lips touched his skin, and Niall wants to curl in on himself in shame and humiliation. 

“You can’t be like that,” is all Conor says. There’s no anger in his voice, just steel, a tone that brooks no argument. His eyes are cold, though not unkind; he’s just telling Niall how it is, after all. Niall knows in that moment that they're never, ever going to talk about it again. 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead he flings himself away from Conor, pushing him a little too hard, maybe, as he stumbles to his feet and out into the open. He’s forgotten the game entirely, but when the other boys gun him down, shouting “Bang-bang-bang-bang” and whooping wildly, he flops onto the filthy floor and performs the requisite final agonies, clutching his stomach and convulsing dramatically for a few minutes before closing his eyes. Death comes as some relief.

*

Things aren’t weird between them, not exactly, but when Conor’s family moves into the new housing estate across town, they just sort of – drift apart. 

That summer Niall starts getting nervous sometimes for no reason. The panic comes out of nowhere, wave after wave of it sweeping over him till his palms are sweating and his heart is pounding, even though he’s just sitting at his desk or lying on the sofa watching telly with his mum. Once when he cuts through the garden on his way home from singing lessons and sees Conor’s mother sitting at his kitchen table talking to his mum, he gets so lightheaded and panicky he has to sit down on the garden bench and wait for the dizziness to pass. It turns out she was only returning a borrowed dish. 

As he gets older the specific fear that Conor will tell someone about that afternoon in the barn subsides a bit, replaced by a more general sense of uneasiness. He’s jumpy and restless all the tine, prone to startling when people talk too loudly or come up behind him without warning. “Stop fidgeting,” his mother’s always whispering to him, slapping at his hands when he can’t stop picking at the skin around his cuticles during Sunday mass. 

There are other feelings mixed up in the restlessness. Like the surge of heat he feels sometimes when he’s playing football with the lads and somebody slams into him, knocking him down, their limbs getting all tangled together, or the way his stomach twists uncomfortably when he watches his mate Ben eat a chocolate bar and then lick his fingers clean. 

The low, constant thrum of guilt and shame becomes as familiar to him as a second heartbeat, beating out a steady pulse in his temples. In the showers after football practice he’s careful not to look too long at anyone, turning his face up towards the water instead and scrubbing furiously at his hair like he’s absorbed in trying to get all the soap out of it. There are precious few opportunities to wank in his house (it’s too small and his mum is always about), but when he does, usually late at night after everyone’s gone to sleep, he tries not to think about anything at all, just concentrates on the quick, furtive movements of his hand and the cool silkiness of the sheets against his skin.

When he’s fifteen his mates on the football team dare him to ask out Molly Riordan from St. Agnes’ down the road. He doesn’t want to seem like a bad sport—or something worse than that—so he does it, calling her up on a Thursday to ask if she’d like to go to the cinema. She’s a lovely girl with a rather terrifying-looking father, who glowers at Niall from his recliner without speaking when he comes to pick her up. They see a romantic comedy with Jennifer Aniston and a nice-looking bloke with great hair in it, and halfway through Molly grasps his hand in the dark, pulling it onto her thigh so his palm is resting just above her knee. 

Like an idiot, he freezes up completely. He has no idea what to do, what’s expected of him, so instead of responding he just blushes fiercely and stares straight ahead at the screen for the rest of the film, as if he’s so absorbed in the plot he hasn’t even noticed they’re touching. 

Afterwards they walk home together in the dark, neither of them saying much. When they get to her house she says a bit awkwardly, “Well, that’s me, then,” and unlatches the garden gate. She’s vanished inside before he has time to panic about whether or not he’s meant to kiss her goodnight. The next morning he shrugs off his mates’ suggestive remarks and exaggerated winks, and never calls her again. 

He knows she’s a lovely girl. But he knows this too, with a cold queasy certainty: that he’d rather kiss the side of a boy’s mouth just once than put his hand up Molly Riordan’s skirt a dozen times over.

*

When he makes it through he can’t believe it. Can't believe any of it: Simon Cowell saying his name, the crushing defeat or the unexpected reprieve. He can't process the live shows, or the girls who've started to gather outside the studio, screaming their names -- Harry's mostly, Liam's too -- as they stick their hands through the bars, grasping for them, desperate for contact. At first Harry's just the latest addition to the list of things Niall never expected to happen to him, part of the background din of noise and excitement. it's not till later, at the house, that he starts to come into focus. 

He's always _touching_. Always hugging someone or kissing them on the cheek, curling up under someone's arm on the sofa, crawling into someone's bunk after lights out when he feels lonely. And he's naked, or nearly so, more than Niall's ever seen anyone be naked before, even when there's cameras nearby and people looking. It makes Zayn snort when he's in a good mood, in a way that makes Harry look smugly pleased, and shove Harry irritably off when he's not, in a way that makes Harry sulk. It makes Liam wring his hands, fretting. _For god's sake, Harry, put on some pants, you're going to get us booted off_. It makes Louis watch Harry with a glint in his eyes Niall recognizes, not because he knows Louis but because he knows trouble. It's a look that says _I dare you._

Niall never knows how to respond when Harry touches him, or leans in close. He never knows where to look, either, at Harry's mouth, at his hands, at Louis's smirk. He can't make out the rules. Sometimes it feels like the rest of them are fluent in a language he's only ever half learned, a language of glances and dirty jokes and casual touches. Niall tries to keep up. He eavesdrops on the native speakers, fumbling his way through it as best he can. 

He watches Harry and Louis orbit each other. He dreams, once, about Louis kissing the side of Harry’s mouth. In the dream Louis doesn't stop there. He kisses Harry's throat, too, mouth lingering on the hollow of Harry's collarbone. In the dream Harry puts his hand on the back of Louis's head and holds him there, arching into it, body lax and hot beneath him. In the cramped shower cubicles later Niall tries not to think about anything at all: just the tight clench of his fist and the spray against his back, the water hot at first, then colder.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s got it under control, mostly. Everything’s fine until they almost get trampled by the crowd in Paris and Niall has a full-blown panic attack in the lobby of the hotel where they’re scheduled for interviews. 

Everyone else is confused and scared and doesn’t understand what’s happening. Liam keeps ordering him to calm down in an increasingly panicked voice, and Niall tries, he really does, but it just makes it worse. He’s been through this enough times to know that you just have to ride it out, even if it feels like you’re dying. Louis disappears, because he’s not very good with feelings, and without Louis there to distract him Harry gets overwhelmed and starts crying. 

That takes some of the attention off of Niall, at least, and Zayn has the sense to sit Niall down on the couch and order the others to stay at a safe distance. Zayn doesn’t touch him or even look right at him, like he knows if he does Niall will shatter into a million pieces. Instead he just sits close to him on the couch and talks to him quietly, telling him funny things Harry did at the concert last night and listing all of the weird foods he and Liam are going to try once they get to Germany. 

Niall’s not really in any state to respond, but he gets what Zayn’s really trying to say to him: you’re good, you’re brave, you’re loved. After a while he’s able to catch his breath, and then Zayn goes to get Paul so they can leave. 

Niall gets assigned to a single room that night, ostensibly so he can rest quietly. Harry, of course, immediately steals Paul’s extra keycard and sneaks in after lights out, crawling under the duvet so he can curl up alongside him. 

He still makes Niall be the big spoon, which is okay. Sleeping next to Harry like this used to make Niall anxious, because Harry sleeps mostly naked and Niall was never sure how much of him he was allowed to touch, but he’s mostly gotten used to it now. He breathes in the clean, just-washed smell of Harry’s hair, half-listening as Harry tells him a long, meandering story about a girl he met in a restaurant who was carrying a little dog in her purse but was trying to keep it a secret from the barkeep because animals weren’t allowed inside. 

Niall can’t quite follow the thread of it, isn’t sure if this happened tonight or a long time ago or in a dream, but it doesn’t really matter. He gets that Harry’s trying to do what he saw Zayn do with Niall that afternoon, copying the gestures of calming someone down even if he doesn’t quite understand how it works. It’s an implicit apology for crying, Niall knows, mixed in with a little bit of jealousy that Harry wasn’t the one to comfort him earlier.

“And that’s why you shouldn’t have a garden if you’re too busy to tend it properly,” Harry finishes a bit confusedly, like even he’s not quite sure how he arrived there. Niall agrees sleepily, wrapping his arm a little tighter around Harry’s middle—that’s okay, that’s allowed, because he’s had such a very long day—and after a little while they both fall asleep.

* 

After Paris, Zayn starts paying attention. 

Sometimes Niall can feel his eyes on him—cool but not unkind, just blank, like he needs to gather more information before he arrives at any kind of conclusion. At breakfast when Harry pulls out all the cereal boxes and leaves them all over the counter, Zayn watches Niall quietly put them all back in order. He notices that Niall prefers to sit in the window seat on long car trips, because it makes him feel calmer if he can press his forehead against the cool glass. Sometimes Zayn will make Liam move under the pretense of showing him something in his sketchbook, or he’ll pull Niall in next to him before anyone else can steal the window seat, pretending like he needs to tell him something. He doesn’t, usually, but that’s the best thing about Zayn. He’s good to be quiet with and he never, ever makes you talk about yourself. 

Zayn doesn’t want to know everything about Niall, not like way Harry does. Harry collects secrets like a magpie, little shiny bits and pieces, anything that catches his eye. He doesn’t seem to want to _do_ anything with them – it’s enough to get hold of them, to store them up in his strange bird’s nest of a mind. It used to make Niall nervous, till he learned how easily Harry can be distracted. 

So he tells Harry lots of little things to appease him, things he hasn’t thought about in years: about the brand of cereal he liked best as a kid, or the long bus ride to school in the mornings, past the cows sleeping standing up in the rocky fields. About the nuns rapping their knuckles when they got a maths problem wrong, or the way his pretty cousin Aoife used to call him little duck when she looked after him and Greg after school. 

He tells Harry about the safe his dad gave him for his tenth birthday, because—as Niall now realizes—he must have forgotten to get him a real present. For years Niall kept his little treasures in there: a piece of crockery that had broken, oddly enough, in the shape of a lumpy heart; a beautiful blue-green feather he’d found in the schoolyard once, which he snuck into the house under his shirt so his mother wouldn’t see it and make him throw it out. A little scrap of paper Conor passed him in catechism class once that just said _Sister Margaret smells like cats and dirty washing_ , which was unkind but true. A stamp Greg gave him once in exchange for one of his prized marbles, which Greg told him was rare and would be worth a million pounds one day if he held onto it long enough. 

He’ll whisper these things to Harry under the covers after Paul’s made them turn the lights out, so that Harry will look at him solemnly and say _Now we know everything about each other_ , like they’re sealing some kind of pact.

It always makes Niall’s heart beat a little faster. Sometimes when he’s feeling overwhelmed—too many people tugging at him and screaming in his ears and wanting things from him—he wishes that they could stay under the covers like that forever, breathing the same close, stuffy air, looking at each other seriously until one of them starts giggling and the other catches it too, both of them rocking with peals of bright, helpless laughter until Zayn bangs on the wall and yells at them to shut the fuck up. In the dark, under the blanket, it’s easy enough to give Harry these little bits and pieces of himself, little snatches of things about who he was before they met. It reminds him that he was a person before this happened, and maybe when it’s over he’ll be a person again. 

He’s learned to leave out the upsetting bits. Harry gets sad too easily, stores up other people’s hurts and broods over them for days like they’re his own, like he can’t quite tell the difference between feelings that belong to him and feelings that don’t. So Niall tells him about Aoife’s laugh and the warm sugar-cookie smell of her sweaters, but not about how she got pregnant when she was fourteen and had to go away to a special home on the coast for troubled girls, and when she finally came back she was sad and pale and didn’t want to talk to anyone. He tells Harry about the safe and the little key that opened it, but he doesn’t tell him that he used to wear it on a piece of string around his neck under his clothes every day, until Greg saw it and told him that only girls and fags wore necklaces, and then he stopped.

*

The fact that Harry wears necklaces has not escaped Niall’s notice. 

Harry’s favorite is the little cross, though ever since he lived at Ben’s house and got to read part of the Seder script out loud at Passover dinner he wears a little gold Star of David sometimes too. He used to try and engage Niall in conversations about the finer points of Catholic ritual, or whether Niall thought God could be real if He made bad things happen to good people. But Niall’s never proven a very rewarding source of religious insight, and eventually Harry gave up. 

Niall doesn’t really know anything about God; it’s just what he grew up with, that’s all. The things he does think about God all seem a little blasphemous. Harry doesn’t want to hear those things anyway, wouldn’t know what to make of them even if Niall could put them into words. Harry wants to know whether cats go to heaven when they die; he doesn’t want to hear about how the first time Niall wanked properly his mind kept straying back to the framed picture his mother kept in the sitting room, a picture of Jesus hanging naked on the cross, his expression sad but serene. How he felt so guilty afterwards he couldn’t look his mother in the eye for weeks. 

“I think that people are just basically good, don’t you,” Harry says to him once, his head in Niall’s lap. Niall cards his fingers through Harry’s hair. "I guess," he says, "yeah," even though he’s pretty sure that’s not the Catholic Church’s accepted stance on the issue. 

That’s the difference between him and Harry, he thinks, or one of them. Harry likes the thought of God because he’s on board with the idea of being loved without having to do anything but show up. Niall’s never really been able to relate to that. In school the part of God he always liked best was the Holy Spirit. It always struck him as a nice idea, not having a body. Being able to go anywhere you liked with no one seeing. No one looking for you, even, or knowing what you were.


	3. Chapter 3

The interviewer is a woman in her mid-thirties, with reddish hair and big dangly earrings that have got feathers in them. She and Harry get on famously right away, though Niall thinks that can probably be chalked up to the fact that she’s got a low-cut top on and she laughs at everything that comes out of Harry's mouth. Harry’s in fine form, doing that thing where he’ll flirt outrageously and then dimple adorably, like he can’t believe his own daring. Louis and Zayn have estimated that this routine has about a ninety percent success rate, though Harry always insists it’s not an act. 

After the group interview they’re sat on the couch to wait their turn for individual profiles. Sara from management has confiscated Louis’s football because she says they’ve gotten too rowdy the last few interviews, and Louis is protesting by flicking little pieces of paper into Liam’s hair, trying to get a rise out of him. Niall picks at a scab on his elbow to avoid being drawn in. Harry tells the interviewer that his ideal girl is _just funny, you know. Someone who’s got the same sense of humor as me,_ and then ducks his head, grinning. 

When it’s Niall’s turn he sits at the table across from the interviewer and swivels back and forth in his chair. He answers her questions as best he can, smiling at all the right moments and saying all the things they’ve told him to say about the fans, but he keeps getting distracted by the sight of Harry curled up into Louis’s side on the couch. Harry whispers something in his ear that makes them both laugh. 

“Sorry?” Niall says, blinking at the woman. 

“I said, what are you most afraid of?” she repeats, tapping her pencil on the table. She’s close enough that he can smell the thick scent of her perfume, something sweet and a bit cloying. The feathers in her earrings quiver slightly. 

Everything, he thinks. Crowds. Singing. The prospect of being trapped inside his own head, alone, forever. Harry, or at least the way he feels sometimes when Harry looks at him, a low, restless thrumming in his chest that makes it difficult to settle. 

Out loud, he says, “Birds flying indoors.” When she gives him a strange look, he stumbles over his words. “Um - the feathers, sorry. Made me think of when birds gets trapped inside someplace and can’t get out. I get scared ‘cos they’re scared.” 

She smiles blankly at him, looking back down at her list of questions to see what’s left. _What a stupid thing to say,_ his mind fills in for her in the silence between them. _What a stupid thing to think._

On the drive back to the hotel he winds up in the same car as Harry and Louis. Louis claims shotgun this time, leaving Harry and Niall the backseat. When Harry climbs in he immediately sprawls out across the back, resting his head in Niall’s lap. Niall pets his hair a little and Harry makes a satisfied little noise in his throat. 

“I liked her,” he announces to the car at large. “She smelled nice.”

Louis snorts without looking up from his phone. “Mate, you like anyone who wants to have sex with you.” 

“Mm,” Harry says noncommittally, turning his head suddenly so that his face is buried in Niall’s shirt, nose pressing uncomfortably into his stomach. Niall can feel the heat of Harry’s breath through the fabric. In moments like these there’s something both terrifying and deeply comforting about the intensity of Niall’s want: how it seems capable of expanding indefinitely within him, filling up every last inch of available space. How sometimes it seems like it might one day crowd him out entirely, leaving him no foothold in his own mind. 

Niall looks out the window, a lump rising suddenly in his throat. A telephone pole flies past outside, and then another: stark black slashes spaced at comfortingly regular intervals, rearing up out of the gathering dark. He starts to count them as the car passes them, eyes following the thin wires that bind each pole to its brothers. _One,_ he thinks as Harry breathes in and then out again, shallow as a child drifting to sleep. _Two. Three._


	4. Chapter 4

“What the fuck, Harry.” 

Niall’s eyes fly open at the sound of Zayn’s muffled voice outside the door of his room. He’s been drifting, not quite dozing, too restless to fall properly asleep. The clock on the bedside table says it’s just past four in the morning. 

“Za-ayn,” Harry says in a singsong voice, giggling to himself. 

Niall’s more than a little annoyed with him, but he still relaxes at the sound of his voice. Harry’s fine, just like he always is. Nothing’s happened to him. He’s not trampled to death somewhere or locked up in a fan’s basement or passed out facedown in a pool of his own vomit on some socialite’s bathroom floor. He’s fine.

“Go back to your room and drink some water, Harry. Better have a shower while you’re at it, too. You reek.” Zayn’s voice is still rough with sleep, but there’s an edge to it, not just his usual irritation at being woken up. 

Harry’s not drunk enough to miss it. “You’re cross with me,” he says. Niall can picture the expression on his face, his mouth pulling down a bit at the edges, brows knitting together as he tries to connect the dots. “Why are you always so cross with me?" 

“Because you’re a fucking idiot, that’s why,” Zayn snaps. “You keep dicking him around, Harry, and it’s not fucking nice. Don’t you dare wake him up, he’s probably just got to sleep. You know how worried he gets when you up and disappear like that.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Harry says, ignoring the last bit entirely. “Not even that drunk.” He’s starting to sound a bit petulant now, probably because there’s nothing Harry dislikes more than being told off for making someone unhappy. _Hates that bit more than making them unhappy in the first place,_ says a small unkind voice in Niall’s head. He’s miserable and tired and the whole thing feels ridiculous, like he’s a helpless maiden bound in a tower, two blokes fighting over his honor outside. 

“Seriously, Harry,” Zayn tries. Harry says, sharply, “Let _go_.” 

A brief scuffle; then the door flies open and Harry’s through, the latch clicking shut behind him. For a moment he just stands there in the dark, silent, like he hadn't planned this far ahead. Then he whispers, cautiously, “Niall?” 

Niall shuts his eyes. He listens as Harry starts to navigate an unsteady path towards the bed, kicking off his heavy boots and shucking off his jacket, shushing Niall's guitar case when he stumbles over it in the dark. 

Harry's stripped down to his briefs by the time he lifts the duvet and slides under it, spooning up behind him. He nuzzles his face into the crook of Niall's shoulder, breathing hot against his neck. He smells like booze and perfume, like the girl he’s no doubt fucked and left in the middle of the night to crawl into Niall’s bed. Harry hums softly to himself, sleepy little sounds as he settles. 

Something tight and clenched in Niall’s chest begins, in spite of itself, to loosen. Harry’s warm against his back, body melting into his, one knee nudging its way between Niall's legs. 

"You’re all right, aren't you,” Harry murmurs, sweet and a bit solemn, the way he gets when he’s drunk. "You’re asleep, Niall, you’re all right," and then he heaves a great sigh, all the breath rushing out of him, as he slides sideways into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (sorry glenne when i wrote this bit i didn't know you existed)

“Leaving already?” Jeff says when he runs into Niall in the entry hall. He’s got one arm slung around a girl whose face Niall vaguely recognizes but can’t quite place. Niall nods, giving her a tight smile. He wonders if they’ve both fucked Harry too, if everyone in the world has slept with Harry Styles except for him. 

“Sorry, mate, I’m knackered,” he says. “Got a car waiting outside.” His palms are sweaty, his heart racing in his chest like he’s the one who’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It suddenly feels imperative to get out of the house as fast as he can. 

“Taking those for the road?” Jeff asks, a knowing grin on his face. The girl giggles nervously. 

Niall realizes he’s still holding the beers he’d grabbed from the kitchen for himself and Harry. He shoves them into the girl’s hands, ignoring the slightly affronted look on her face.

“All yours,” he says, and pushes past them, out to where the car is waiting. 

*  
At home he pulls out the only bottle of liquor he can find in the cupboard, a handle of expensive pomegranate-infused vodka Liam gave them all for Christmas a couple years back. It’s unopened, probably because pomegranate’s a disgusting thing to ruin perfectly good liquor with. 

He knocks back two shots standing up at the counter, one right after the other, and then takes the bottle and glass into the living room. He can’t work out how to get Harry’s fancy telly to come out of the wall even after he mashes all the buttons on the remote. Finally he gives up and just lies down on the sofa in the dark, opening up Twitter to scroll through his mentions. He likes a few fan tweets, checks the final score of the Ireland-Germany match. Then he tosses his mobile onto the coffee table and covers his face with his hands for a minute. 

When his phone dings a moment later with an incoming message, he goes for it so fast he almost knocks the handle over.

_oi wheres my beer!_ Harry’s texted him, followed by a sad face and a string of x’s. 

Niall stares at the screen for a minute before silencing his phone and shoves it under the couch cushions. This time he foregoes the glass, taking a swig right out of the bottle like one of the jaded, world-weary heroes of Liam’s favorite shoot-em-ups. 

The taste nearly chokes him, but he swallows it down anyway, impatient. He’s not looking to waste any more time than he has to in this hazy, tipsy in-between stage. He just wants to be pissed out of his mind, blind drunk in a way he hasn’t been in months.

That night he dreams that he’s back in the abandoned barn, trying and failing to kiss Conor again, only this time the barn is really the empty stage at Wembley Stadium, and when he pushes himself away from Conor and out into the open, it’s not Greg’s friends lying in wait for him but Harry, looking tall and gorgeous and utterly untouchable. 

Niall stumbles towards him, reaching for him. “Please, Harry,” he says, the words heavy and leaden in his mouth. He’s not even sure what he’s asking him for. Mercy, maybe. Love. 

But Harry just brings up an arm, stopping him in his tracks. His finger cocks an invisible trigger. 

“Bang,” he says softly, and Niall startles awake with a gasp.

*

It takes him a minute to remember where he is. Los Angeles. Harry’s flat. The spare room. He’s moved somehow from the sofa to the bedroom, but he’s forgotten to draw the curtains before passing out. The sun is flooding in through the big glass windows, drenching everything in merciless light. He groans and rolls over to find his phone on the bedside table. 

There’s nothing more from Harry, just Twitter notifications and a text from Eoghan from a few hours ago that just says, _Alright, mate? Call me if u want to talk about it._ And that means he must’ve left him a message at some point last night—which, shit. He doesn’t want to think about the kinds of things he might have said. This whole thing is starting to feel too big, too out of control, like after years of regulating every thought and feeling with meticulous care everything inside of him is suddenly giving way all at once. 

He’s not anywhere near ready to face Harry yet, which of course means that when he staggers out into the kitchen in search of a cuppa Harry is sitting at the kitchen table with two plates and a full breakfast laid out in front of him. He’s frowning at his phone, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth as he types something out, but when he looks up and sees Niall his expression brightens. He looks serene and radiantly unhungover, like he’s slept ten hours and drunk five liters of water and done yoga on the beach at sunrise all before Niall stumbled out of his spare room. 

“Breakfast!” Harry announces cheerfully, pushing a plate towards him. 

Niall grunts and collapses into the chair. He’s in his pants and an old stretched-out t-shirt that once belonged to Louis and he probably reeks of booze and cigarette smoke. Harry, on the other hand, has got on tight black jeans and a stupid gauzy white top that shows off his chest tattoos and probably cost a thousand pounds in the shops. He looks irritatingly beautiful, though Niall feels a faintly malicious surge of satisfaction when he sees that Harry’s already managed to put his elbow in a bit of strawberry jam and stain the sleeve. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Harry sneaking glances at him over his fork when he thinks Niall isn’t looking. Niall doesn’t volunteer anything. 

After a while Harry clears his throat and says casually, “So you got proper pissed last night.” 

He’s buttering a piece of toast as he says it, which makes Niall feel, surreally, like he’s landed himself in one of those tense family dramas his mum used to like to watch on the telly in the evenings. Harry’s the rich pill-popping stepmother who’s got a skeleton or two in his closet. He’s the black sheep son who’s managed to once again let everyone down. In a minute someone’s going to demand a divorce, or start throwing things, or reveal that they’ve knocked up the housekeeper. 

“Must’ve had a few too many at the party,” he replies. He shoves a piece of dry toast into his mouth, trying not to gag, and Harry says quickly, “All that vodka probably didn’t help either.” 

He says it with a slightly triumphant lift in his voice, and it sounds like it’s meant to be a dramatic revelation—ha, caught!—but in typical Harry fashion he’s flubbed the delivery, as if he knew it was his trump card but couldn’t wait a second longer to lay it down. 

Harry’s been like that for as long as Niall’s known him: unable to bide his time, incapable of playing the long game. It’s how Niall knows that Harry isn’t in love with him, too. If he were he’d never be able to keep it to himself. 

“Just helping you get rid of it,” Niall says. 

“Is everything okay?” Harry scoots his chair closer to him and reaches out like he’s going to pat Niall’s arm. 

Niall flinches away before he can stop himself, though he manages to conceal the movement by reaching for the glass of orange juice Harry’s thoughtfully placed by his elbow. He doesn’t particularly want to be touched right now. 

“’M fine, Haz. Didya want to see if James was free later on, then?” 

Harry looks puzzled but also slightly apprehensive now, like he suspects someone is about to be in trouble and he hasn’t quite figured out yet if it’s going to be him. Poor Harry. It’s not his fault that Niall wants to kiss him so badly his hands are almost shaking with it. It’s not his fault he doesn’t want to kiss Niall back. 

“Did something happen, um, with Mary?” 

“It’s Melly,” Niall says, putting his glass down a little too hard on the table and making Harry jump. “Which you should know because you met her half a dozen times. And no, I’ve not spoken to her in months. Jesus, Harry, what’s with the third degree? I’ll buy you some more vodka before I leave, if that’s what’s got you so worried.” 

“Of course that’s not what I’m worried about!” Harry exclaims, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m worried about you! You were acting weird all day and then Jeff said you practically ran out of the house without telling anyone and when I got home you were passed out on the sofa. And that vodka is _vile_ , Niall, that's why no one's ever drunk it.” 

It’s a testament to how heated things have gotten that neither of them smiles at the accidental rhyme. Honestly, Niall’s never felt less like smiling in his life, except for maybe the time he walked in on his best friend—his straight best friend, the boy he’s been stupidly, hopelessly pining after since the first time they shared a bed together in the bungalow a million years ago—getting snogged up against a wall by a handsome ex-lacrosse player. 

He feels sick, feverish almost. He can’t seem to shut himself up.

“So you did make it home last night,” he says nastily, picking up his fork and poking viciously at his eggs. “Didn’t end up sleeping somewhere else?”

“I live here, Niall!” Harry shoots back. Then he stills for a minute, comprehension dawning on his face. “Wait—is this—are you talking about me and Xander?”

“Is that his name?” Niall asks with forced casualness. “I saw you two last night in the garden. Pretty fucking careless of you, Harry, anybody could’ve walked in on the two of you practically going at it. Or did you even care, Harry? Were you just so hard up for it you couldn’t wait?” 

“Jesus, Niall, it’s not some kind of dirty secret,” Harry says, looking shocked. “Pretty much all my friends here already know. That’s not how I meant for you to find out—that’s why I asked you to come up this weekend, so I could tell you properly. But I’m not, like, ashamed of it. I don’t care what people think about me.”

_My friends already know_. 

“So what,” Niall says flatly. “You’re gay now?” 

“Not exactly,” Harry says. He’s fiddling with his napkin, not quite meeting Niall’s eyes. “I like girls just fine, it’s just—it’s different with a bloke, and I like that too. Sometimes better.” He hesitates for a second, then says, “I know it probably seems sudden, but I guess it’s sort of been at the back of my mind for a long time, you know? There was this night a while back where Grimmy and I got wasted and he kept asking me, like, if I’d ever gotten off with Louis back then, or if I ever wanted to, ‘cause that’s what everyone always wants to know. And I said no, I hadn’t, and that was it. But afterwards I just kept thinking about it. And I started wondering if, like, maybe people were a little bit right. Not about me and Lou, obviously, just—about me, I guess. If maybe they saw something I didn’t.” 

And that’s just Harry all over, isn’t it, Niall thinks. Why make things complicated for yourself when they could be easy instead? You wake up one morning and think you might be gay, so you go and get yourself a boyfriend, and then you sit at a table and tell people about it over breakfast like it’s nothing. Like it’s not that important, not really.

“So that time we pulled in Sydney,” he says, cutting Harry off in the middle of a sentence. 

His mouth feels suddenly dry. He remembers how Harry had watched him that night over the girl’s shoulder, his gaze curiously intent. How Harry kissed him after like it cost him nothing to do it, mouth sliding slickly open beneath his, fingers curling loosely around Niall’s wrist. 

He has to ask, even though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. 

“Did you know already, then?” he asks. “Or was that you figuring it out? Was I your test run?”

Harry looks at him with wide, pleading eyes. “It wasn’t like that,” he says. “I swear, Niall, I didn’t mean to—to use you or anything like that. It felt safe, with you. Always felt safe with you.”

The dream from last night returns to Niall now with a sudden clarity. He thinks about how calm dream-Harry looked, training his imaginary gun on Niall’s heart, how beautiful and self-composed, and he feels the shock of the betrayal shiver through him like a fresh violation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a couple weeks later, after liam walks in on niall blowing one of the crew members in a utility closet backstage.

As expected, Liam waylays him the second he steps out of the utility closet and drags him into his dressing room. 

Niall sits in the chair, staring at the Polaroid photos of Sophia that Liam’s got stuck all around the edges of his mirror, waiting for Liam to launch into his lecture about the brand and the fans and the press and hoping he won’t be called upon to say much. But Liam seems oddly unsure where to start. Finally he just blurts out, “Couldn’t you have just, y’know, found a girl?”

Niall gives a little half shrug. “Not really into girls, mate,” he says with forced casualness, and he swears he can hear Liam’s entire worldview readjusting, like he’s running through a reel of the last five years in his head and mentally reframing every encounter he’s ever had with Niall. It doesn’t feel as weird to say it out loud as he expected. He thought the universe would shudder to a halt, but it really only gives Liam a few seconds’ pause.

“Well, did you at least make him sign an NDA?” he asks, as if it’s totally normal to whip out legal paperwork before someone goes down on you in a storage closet. Niall chooses not to comment on this, as Liam’s clearly chosen to deal with the shock of Niall’s revelation by going into professional fixer mode. Nothing puts Liam at ease like handling problems, especially ones that might jeopardize the future of the band and ruin all their reputations. No doubt this approach has the side benefit of allowing him to avoid thinking too much about Niall touching other people’s dicks, or about all the times Niall’s seen him naked.

Niall wants to tell him that Jack won’t tell anyone. But he’s honestly not sure that’s true; he barely knows the guy, and he doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to picking men. Instead he says, “Couldn’t go to the tabs. He’s got no proof.”

“Could’ve been recording it in his pocket or something,” Liam says immediately, in a way that suggests that he’s been thinking about this nonstop since he walked in on Niall with his dick in someone else’s mouth fifteen minutes ago. “Could’ve had somebody waiting outside to jump in and snap a pic and then blackmail you with it. Jesus, Niall, you’ve got to think.”

As if Niall doesn’t think. As if Niall does anything but think and think and think, until he feels like he’ll go out of his head with it.

“I know,” is all he can manage. “It won’t happen again. It was the first time, like. In a while.”

“Good,” Liam says with evident relief, and then seems to realize he’s maybe being a bit insensitive and adds hurriedly, “I mean—um, there’s plenty of time for that later, yeah? Like, maybe you can sort all this out once, um, things have slowed down a bit for us.”

“Yeah,” Niall says, “yeah, good call.”

Liam hesitates, then asks, “Have you—what about Harry?”

“What about him?” Niall replies evenly, because if Liam is trying to imply what he thinks he’s implying—that he and Harry, as the only two non-straight members of the band, should just pair off with each other to avoid anyone else finding out—Niall is damn well going to make him say it out loud.

But Liam just looks awkward again and says, “You’ve told him, right?”

“Not really his business, is it?” Niall says easily. He sees it again in his mind for a second: Harry pressed up against the wall, head tipped back, mouth gone slack with pleasure as Xander groped at his dick through his jeans, kissing his way up the long, pale expanse of Harry’s throat. Then it’s gone, and he’s just looking at a Polaroid of Sophia in a tiny pink bikini, pouting vacantly at the camera. “If we’re done here, I’d better go find Lottie, yeah?”

“Okay,” Liam says, blinking slowly, and Niall seizes his chance to escape.

**Author's Note:**

> fic tumblr [here](http://saysthemagpie.tumblr.com).


End file.
